


The Real Deal

by thegingerintheback (CdnGingerGirl)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!John, Established Relationship, Medical, Sherlock learns a little something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CdnGingerGirl/pseuds/thegingerintheback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock realises just why John is a doctor, and why he loves it so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Real Deal

**Author's Note:**

> I happened to be reading something by Random_Nexus, which mentioned John in scrubs, and this just sort of took off on its own. It's not really part of my Domestfics series, so I'm not adding it on. It sort of stands alone. Enjoy!

John Watson is many things to many people.

To DI Lestrade and most of NSY, he’s Sherlock Holmes’ sidekick, the man who keeps the genius (or weirdo, depending on your point of view) in check.

To Greg Lestrade, regular bloke, John is a mate for a pint, someone with whom he can catch a match at the pub and whinge about women troubles.

To Mycroft Holmes, he’s the man who saved his brother from himself. And although he regularly reminds John that he holds him to a high standard, as he would anyone who dared be Sherlock’s companion, secretly he’s grateful each and every day that fate and a sniper’s bullet brought John into Sherlock’s life.

To Sherlock, he’s invaluable. Blogger, helper, conductor of light. After that, friend; even more recently, lover and companion, with all that word entails.

But to the vast majority of people, John Watson is an A&E doctor, the man on the first line of defense against something as simple as a broken arm, or as complex or frightening as a gunshot wound, a car accident or a heart attack.

Most people who know John never get to see this side of him. Sherlock comes close, whenever John stitches him up or wraps his ankle or puts him to bed with some paracetamol and an admonishment to “Stay put and rest, Sherlock, I mean it.” But even Sherlock has never seen John in full doctor mode. The people who do, slide through John’s life like so much water, there and then gone.

~~

Sherlock sits in A&E, frustration evident on his face and disgust pulled around him like a personal raincloud. He hates it here, absolutely hates it, but his ankle (broken two years ago in a leap from a chain link fence and never properly healed, and doesn’t John get his _I told you so_ look on whenever Sherlock flexes it and winces) is playing up again. It was weak enough that he had rolled it at a crime scene and was limping and snarling his deductions to the point where Lestrade shoved him into his car, drove him to St. Mary’s, and dropped him in A &E. He’d signed Sherlock in at the desk, asked specifically for Dr Watson, and left Sherlock with strict instructions to wait quietly for John.

Sherlock hates A&E. The waiting, the noise, the sick people… it’s revolting. He’s already deduced the patients waiting, including the new arrivals. He watches a man who’s clearly had a stroke arrive by ambulance, and sees a sad family leave, minus a little boy, judging by the little red coat the mother is using to muffle her sobs. And technically, he does not belong here. His ankle is neither an accident nor an emergency, and Lestrade’s insistence on his being here, as well as the wasted time, is grating on his nerves.

But the pain is beginning to interfere with his work. If he rolls his ankle just walking around a crime scene, how will he be able to chase a suspect? His ankle will just get worse and worse, and soon he’ll be forced into early retirement, reduced to merely an armchair consulting detective. And he’s certain there are lots of those in the world. He’ll languish, stuck in one place, his body losing its muscle, his mind following suit, and of course John… well, who wants such a partner? Sherlock knows John loves him, he does, but there is a part of him that wonders if it’s only because he provides John with stimulation, action and excitement. It’s how he cured John’s limp, after all. Sherlock suddenly has a wild vision of his Uncle David, injured in the war as a young man, prematurely aged, a curmudgeon in an armchair wrapped in a blanket at the age of forty-five. The rest of the family pitied him, patted his shoulder or his arm, called him “poor dear”. Sherlock would rather gouge out his own eyes than face that fate.

As well (and Sherlock’s heart swells at this), John would be so happy to see that Sherlock was seeking medical help when he needed it. He doesn’t necessarily need to know that Lestrade brought Sherlock there against his will, but the idea of John smiling, of him gently manipulating the sore joint, warms him in ways he can’t explain. John is always complaining Sherlock doesn’t take proper care of himself, and it’s completely true. Of course, Sherlock has never had a reason to take of himself before; before John, there was only the Work. And now he prefers to take care of John, in his own way. But if finally stopping to give his transport a tune-up, as it were, will make John happy, and if it helps with the work, then he’s willing to do it.

He sighs and shifts in the hard, plastic hospital chair. The A&E is large, and arranged like most: long rows of chairs, public entrance at one end, triage desk at the other, ambulance bay doors off to the side.  The chairs are mostly filled with people, including a wheezing child (croup, most likely) and a man clutching a towel to a dripping cut in his arm. His friend beside him loses a little more colour every time he looks at the blood, and it’s not hard to deduce just who is responsible. Sherlock sighs again; next to distressed breathing and blood, he’s not getting in to see John any time soon.

Suddenly, the bay doors burst open as two paramedics push a gurney through. There’s a man lying prone, and there’s blood everywhere, spurting from a wound in the thigh. Everyone is shouting, and the other people in the chairs are exclaiming in fear, but all Sherlock can hear, all he can _see_ , is John.

The blond doctor is on the gurney, straddling the patient’s calves, putting pressure on the inner thigh. His scrubs are drenched with blood, and he’s calling for blood, monitoring, a surgeon, and help. He’s not shouting, but his voice carries nonetheless, and it’s full of authority. Dimly, Sherlock can see other staff snapping to attention, without realizing it, before fetching the requested supplies. The paramedics push the gurney past the triage desk, taking John with it. Almost without awareness, Sherlock is rising, following, limping after it. He can’t lose sight of John now, not now that he’s seen him in action in his true setting, his natural habitat.

The gurney is shoved into a curtained-off area, where it is met by nurses and another doctor. John hops down, carefully keeping pressure on the wound; he moves to the side as a nurse applies a pressure dressing expertly. Another nurse shakes out a plastic gown for a man just entering the area.

“Ah, Watson. What’ve we got?”

“Slash to the thigh, Grayson. I don’t think it’s got the femoral artery, but it’s bleeding like a mother. Mugging gone wrong, I’m told. We’ve hung a unit of O-neg—" He glances behind him to confirm, just as a nurse slides a needle into the man’s arm and starts the flow. “So he should be stable for surgery soon, I hope. He’s clotting already, but slower than I would like. We’re cross-matching now so we can hang his blood type for the surgery.” He turns to the monitors and skims the display. “Blood pressure’s already going up. Normally surgery wouldn’t be needed, but the knife was serrated, so it’s pretty ugly in there. He’ll need a lot of stitches; best to do them under anaesthesia, make sure nothing else got nicked. Plus he doesn’t need a big ugly scar; he’s still a young man. He should be ready to go by the time you scrub up and the room’s prepped.”

“Excellent, Watson, thorough as always. You’ll assist, of course. And this one brought him in?” The surgeon indicates Sherlock, hovering by the curtained entrance. He’s been completely silent the whole time, completely enthralled in watching John.

“What? No, he came by ambulance… Sherlock? Why are you here? Did you see what happened, did you catch the man who did this?” John’s voice is puzzled, but no less authoritative. Sherlock swallows, resisting the order implicit in the voice.

“No, I wasn’t there. I’ve been here, the whole time… My ankle…”

John’s gaze sharpens as he takes in the way Sherlock is standing, the way all his weight is on one leg, the creases in his trousers from sitting so long. He looks quickly to make sure his patient is stable, and then moves around the gurney to Sherlock until he is inches away from the detective.

Sherlock rakes his eyes across John, seeing the evidence of his day in his clothes and his face. He’s already had encounters with someone with ‘flu (a child, judging by the height of the stains) as well as set a couple of broken bones (flecks of plaster in his hair). The smell of the blood soaking John’s scrubs fills Sherlock’s nostrils, and John looks exhausted, but he also looks strong, professional and in control, and for the first time in their association, Sherlock gets it. This is John’s element, where he’s meant to be, and while Sherlock will never give him up, he also, for the first time, understands just why John is so insistent on keeping a job as a doctor. It’s not about the money (well, maybe partly about the money; John’s proud and he doesn’t want to feel like a kept man, or, before they started sleeping together, like he was taking charity); it’s about using his training and making a difference.

As Sherlock’s mind flashes through everything, he realizes John has pushed him into a nearby wheelchair and is kneeling in front of him, gently palpating the ankle. “You looked dead on your feet,” he says. “I know you didn’t have dinner last night, and I’m guessing you didn’t have breakfast either?” When Sherlock shakes his head, he sighs, but it’s a good-natured sigh. “Okay, listen. I’m going to have Louise take you to the doctor’s lounge and find you something to eat, okay? And you’re going to stay there and not touch anything while I help Dr Grayson here stitch up this young man’s leg. And when I’m done, I’ll come and find you, and I’ll bring an orthopaedist with me to check out this ankle. I’m starting to think you might need surgery on it, but Dr Cooper is one of the best in London.”

“She’s free now, I think. I can call her,” offers a nurse with copper hair (Louise, if the L. McKenzie on her tag is anything to go by).

“If you could, Louise? And if we could find someone to grab Mr Holmes a sandwich before he passes out, that would be lovely. Don’t you roll your eyes at me, Sherlock…” In a warning tone.  “If you faint, you won’t get to see how it looks on the X-ray, and you know you love that. So you eat whatever Louise brings you, yeah?”

An orderly arrives through the curtain. “Dr Grayson’s ready now, if the patient is stable. He’s waiting on you, Dr Watson.”

John gets up and gives the monitors a thorough reading. “He’s as ready as he’ll ever be, I think. Cathy, you and Doug take him, I’ll be just behind you. Louise?” He looks at the redhead as she hangs up the phone.

“Dr Cooper will be right down. I can run him to X-ray for you, and I’ll grab him a sandwich from the canteen.”

John smiles fondly at her, and Sherlock is seized with a moment of irrational jealousy, even though John will be coming home to him tonight. “Thank you, Louise. Dr Cooper will review the films with me later, Sherlock, so behave yourself.” He takes Sherlock’s hand and presses it fondly. “I’ll see you later. If you are a really good patient, I’ll take you for Chinese tonight.”

“I believe most doctors hand out lollies,” Sherlock grumbles. John chuckles; he’s used to Sherlock’s sweet tooth.

“I have to go. I’ll see you in a bit, okay?” John squeezes Sherlock’s arm one last time and disappears through the curtain.

Louise smiles at Sherlock; she’s friendly, but there’s a hint of steel in her smile. She was definitely listening to John’s instructions. “Right. Well, Mr Holmes, I’ll just pop you down to X-ray, and by the time they’re done with you, I’ll have something ready for you in the doctor’s lounge. And I’ll be checking to see you eat everything, just as Dr Watson said to, so no tricks.” She releases the handbrake on the chair and starts them down the hall and into the lift. “I’m sure you know I used to work paediatrics, so you know I’m used to dealing with surly teenagers and little picky eaters, and there’s nothing you can try on me I haven’t seen before.” She keeps up a stream of inane chatter all the way to X-ray, but it barely registers in Sherlock’s consciousness.

John. So strong, so confident and in control. Sherlock’s seen hints of army John before, when he’s barked orders at NSY officers or when he’s tried to bully Sherlock, and of course he’s seen Dr John before. But this is the first time he’s seen Dr Watson, Surgeon Specialising in Traumas. Sherlock almost doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge. How should he file it? Where in the mind palace should it go? The camo-green room for Army John seems inadequate, as does the sterile Dr John clinic. It belongs in both, and in neither.

Not to mention the fact that seeing John so in control of such a horrifying situation was… more than a little arousing.

Sherlock can’t explain it. It’s not like the sight of blood does anything for him. Rather, it’s the sight of John, wearing scrubs, covered in blood, holding a man’s life in his hands and refusing to let it go that’s getting under Sherlock’s skin. He finally understands why John’s eyes glow with pride whenever Sherlock makes a brilliant deduction.

This is what being with someone is all about: it’s letting them do what they need to do, what they’re good at, and being proud of them when they do a good job.

Rationally, Sherlock doesn’t understand. These aren’t his accomplishments. He didn’t press his hands to the man’s bloody thigh, he didn’t give the instructions that saved his life, and he isn’t stitching up torn flesh and muscle. So why does he feel so inordinately proud?

Sherlock has never been a person who tied his self-worth into someone else’s. He’d met too many people like that, growing up: girls more in love with the idea of being married to a doctor or a lawyer than with the man himself; men content to sponge off the wife’s family money. He’s independent, and he knows his work stands on its own merits. But there is something niggling at him nevertheless, something that says, “You see that man over there? The man who fought with death and won? The man who looks it in the eye every day and says ‘fuck off, you can’t have this child, or this man, or this woman, it’s not your time’? The man who looks like he was poured into his scrubs the way an aged Scotch is poured into a glass? That’s John Watson, and he’s mine, and I get to touch him, and only I get that privilege. When he’s done saving lives he comes home to me and saves mine every night.”

Sherlock is jerked from his reverie by the sudden stop of the wheelchair. Louise applies the handbrake as a pretty brunette in a white coat approaches, her hand out.

“Mr Holmes? I’m Dr Cooper, head of orthopaedics. Let’s have a look at that ankle, shall we?”

~~

Sherlock is sulkily finishing off a ham sandwich under Louise’s watchful eye when John opens the door to the lounge. He’s changed into fresh scrubs, a sign he’s not coming home anytime soon, and he has a large envelope under one arm.

“Well, the bad news is, we’re going to have to re-break it again so it can set properly.” He hands the envelope to Sherlock, who drops the remainder of his sandwich on a tray next to an empty bowl, formerly holding tinned (and tinny-tasting) cream of mushroom soup, and, wiping his fingers on a napkin, pulls the film out and holds it up to the light. John stands behind him and uses the end of a pen to point out the delicate bones, now crookedly fused.

“I don’t think we’ll need to put in a pin or anything. But this time, you have to stay off it for eight weeks, or you’ll be coming back here for surgery, do you understand me, Sherlock? You running around on it too soon is what bollocked it up in the first place.”

Sherlock studies the films. The bones in his ankle are thin, and it’s hard to believe something so tiny can support his weight. He sees clearly the warped connection that’s causing him so much pain.

John takes the film back and returns it to the envelope. “I’ll bring you back in a couple of weeks. We’ll re-set the bone and put the ankle in a cast, and you can recuperate at home. I’ll take some leave to stay with you, and Mrs Hudson will help, I’m sure.” He puts the envelope on the table and takes Sherlock’s hand. “I know it will be dull, but you’ll have to be patient. We’ll have to get you a telescope or a big camera, like Jimmy Stewart had in ‘Rear Window’.” He chuckles as he sits across from Sherlock.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“I know you don’t.” John pulls a packet of chocolate digestives from his pocket. “Now, were you a good patient? Did you eat all your lunch?”

Sherlock picks up the rest of his sandwich. He carefully nibbles the rest of the bread and ham, leaving only the crust. John smiles and hands him the biscuits.

“Want to stop for Chinese? I’m off in an hour, if you want to wait around, or I can grab takeaway on the way home?”

“Takeaway. But don’t I get a lolly for being a good patient?”

John pulls one from his pocket; lemon, wrapped in plastic; Sherlock takes it eagerly and yanks off the wrapper. He pops it in his mouth and sighs.

With another chuckle, John gets up. “I’ll bring home Moo-Shu for you, okay? And I’ll schedule your appointment with Dr Cooper.” He leans down and kisses Sherlock, careful not to get jabbed by the lolly stick. “You know I love you.”

Sherlock smiles around the candy as John walks away. But suddenly he yanks the sweet from his mouth.

“John?” When the doctor turns around with an inquiring smile, Sherlock swallows lemon flavour. “You were… that thing… the man…” He sighs. “You were magnificent. You’re a wonderful doctor. I can see you love your work.”

John’s smile nearly stops Sherlock’s heart, it’s so wide and proud, yet fond at the same time. “I do, Sherlock. I love working with you, but being a doctor, it’s who I am. When we’re too old to run around London, I’ll still be able to practise, you know.”

“I know.”

John looks as though he’s about to say something else, but just then, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks the display quickly. “My patient’s awake, I have to go. See you tonight.”

The door shuts with a click, and Sherlock is alone in his wheelchair.

~~

When John arrives at home at seven, plastic carrier bag of Chinese hanging from his fingers, Sherlock is lying on the sofa in his usual position. But he has his ankle propped on a pillow, with a bag of frozen peas draped over it. John smiles warmly before dropping a kiss on his lips.

“Did you at least solve the case before Lestrade brought you in?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “He texted you.”

“He did indeed. At least you had the good sense to stay and let us have a look at it.” He goes into the kitchen and returns with a fork and a beer for himself, and a set of chopsticks for Sherlock. “It won’t be so bad, you’ll see. Eight weeks will fly by. We should set up some experiments or something for you to work on while you’re housebound, and if you’re very good, I’ll get you some crutches so you can go out and work a little, okay? But you’ll have to be careful not to jostle anything. I’ll see if I can get you a walking cast, if everything looks good.” He shuffles to the end of the couch, lifts Sherlock’s legs so he can sit, and then rests his feet in his lap. He picks up the bag of peas, feels Sherlock’s ankle, and drops the bag on the floor. “So did you solve the case?”

And Sherlock launches into his deductions, explaining how he knew the man was smuggling exotic snakes into the country when he saw the twin pricks on his wrist. He waves his hands as he recounts how he knew the man had been dosing himself with anti-venom. And when he sees the look in John’s eyes, his belly glows warm with shared pride. 


End file.
